


How Things Have Changed

by hetalia_textbook



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FACE Family, Historical References, M/M, fic about the America Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetalia_textbook/pseuds/hetalia_textbook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People change and that just the natural course of time. However, with the life a nation where so much remains the same for so long, England assumed his little boy would remain just that, forever his little boy. He learns the hard way that his controlling nature pushes more people away rather than keeps them around and he begins to lose those he once held so near to his heart. America is growing up too fast for his own good, but perhaps it is time to let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attention Seeking

England, America, and Canada sat at the dining room table, parchments, quill pens, and books scattered around. The air was hot and muggy from the summer air in Virginia and the three distracted themselves from the discomfort through their studies. England hovered over the two, watching as their tiny ink stained hands moved quill pens across their parchments. The tips of the pens scratched and moved shakily and messily along the flattened tree pulp. America gripped a quill in his hand and squinted at the paper he was writing on. “Alfred, be careful. You’re smudging ink on your paper… and you spelled ‘today’ wrong,”

“I did?” America leaned in closer to his paper to get a better look. The words he had written barely came into focus. “It always looked smudgy to me and I thought ‘today’ was spelled like ‘two’, right?” America help up two fingers and looked up at England for an answer.

“No, poppet, there is no ‘W’,” England corrected. America nodded and returned to squinting his blue eyes at his paper to continue his spelling practice. His letters were large and messy. They were scrawled along the parchment, lines missing one another and some too far away to ever resemble the letters they were made to be. America was lucky England could read what he had written, but he didn’t like that Alfred wrote his letters so big. He didn’t know that the bigger the script America wrote in, the better the small boy could see it.

“Canada, how are you’re math problems coming along?” England asked, turning his attention away from America in favor of the older twin.

“Okay,” Canada responded quietly and pushed his completed math problems toward England. “I think I did well,”

“We’ll then, let’s see then shall we?” England picked up the sheet of parchment and read over the math problems. “Hmm…” After a moment, England set the paper back down in front of Canada and pointed to a problem half way down the page. “That’s not correct. 12 plus 20 isn’t 31. Try that again. Count on your fingers if you have to,”

Canada pulled the paper back toward him and slowly counted on his fingers up from twenty. “Is it… 32?” he asked and beamed when England nodded.

“Good job,” England praised and took the paper back. “Okay, time to switch. Alfred, do your math. Matthew, let’s study your words for this week,”

France stepped inside the room with a smiled on his face and a bounce in his step. “Bonjour, mon amours! How is the schooling going?” France rested his hand on the back of Canada’s chair and the other on the table. “Oh, math! Did you get it all correct this time?”

Matthew nodded and a proud smile and France hug his tightly around the shoulders. “Oh good job, mon petit!”

“I-I did good too!” exclaimed America, looking for praise, “I did my spelling! Be proud of me too!”

“It’s ‘I did well’, Alfred,” England corrected and ruffled the small boy’s hair. He turned to France and gave him a questioning look. “Did you bring what I asked you for?”

“Oui, of course I did. I am not an idiot,” Francis replied with a chuckle.

“That can be debated,” England said under his breath.

“What did you bring?” the twin colonies asked together.

“Tada!” France cheered and pulled to small riffles from behind his back. “You two are learning to shoot today!”

“I want to shoot them!” America exclaimed and jumped to his feet.

“After you finish your school work. Now sit down,” England said and tugged America back into his seat.

-

Giving two clumsy children riffles might not have been the best idea, but practice made perfect. England and France had set up targets in the backyard. Some were nailed to trees and others were held up by stands. Out of ten targets, only three had been hit. Once by Alfred, who clipped the side of the circular target and twice by Matthew, whom had been helped by France. France had knelt down to his boy’s height and held his arms in the right position and helped him aim.

England had opted to stay on the sidelines and watch. He wanted America to learn on his own, since he wouldn’t be there to coddle the boy, not with him leaving for Europe in a few months and the rise in Indian attacks and the rebellions sparking up every once and awhile. England would have waited a few more years, had he not thought that his boys needed to protect themselves. Sure, they were skilled with blow darts and arrows, as both he and France learned when they had first come to the New World and America and Canada were much less civilized, but they needed to know how to properly fight.

America stamped his foot into the grass as his next shot missed the target completely. England sighed at the boy’s frustration and came to stand beside him. “Like this,” England instructed and moved America’s arms into the right position. “Steady… Keep your eye on the target. Focus on the bull’s-eye,” England watched as America lifted his riffle and squinted his eyes. “Darling, you’ll never hit the target if you squint like that,” England explained.

“Really?” America blinked and stopped squinting. The target became blurrier and America lost the bull’s-eye. “But… I can’t…” America wobbled and England held the riffle firmly.

“Shoot,”

America pulled the trigger and the recoil made his stagger backward. He hadn’t been expecting it. He surprised himself when he pulled the trigger without thinking. England hummed and rubbed his chin in thought, “Not great, but it’s a good try,” He patted America’s back in praise, “You hit the target. Good job,”

A smile slipped across America’s lips as he saw the whole in one of the red lines. He really had hit the target. “Are you proud of me?”

“Very much so,” England smiled back.

-

“Riots! Indian attacks! Raids! Disruptions in town! Disobedience toward authority! Smuggling!? America, I thought I taught you better than this!” England paced back and forth across America’s room. The boy was sure England’s feet would dig a line into the floor boards. America kept his head down as England ranted. There was no use in talking back. England wasn’t the kind of person to listen when he was angry. When he was angry, England liked to stay angry. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

America shrugged.

“Nothing?” England snapped and stopped his pacing, “You have nothing to say to me?”

“…I didn’t do anything wrong,”

“Maybe not you personally, America, but you are your people and when they act up, you’re acting up. I’ll ask you again… What do you have to say for yourself?” England crossed his arms and waited. He had no idea how intimidating it was for America when he towered over him, or perhaps he did and was using it to his advantage.

America shuffled his boots and watched the floorboards shift under his weight. “… I’m sorry if my people disobeyed your rules… and I promise that I will follow the rules set forth from now on,” America recited for what seemed like the hundredth time. It wasn’t helping that England’s government was implementing more and more laws that seemed so irrelevant and only hurt his people. He didn’t see the point of only trading with England, which is why he smuggled goods to the Dutch and his people ignored the authority of their mayors. It wasn’t as if the men were elected. Stranger danger wasn’t that big of a deal to the ten year old anymore and he was confused why England’s laws seemed so different in the colonies than in the explanations England gave in class. Even more so, he was never around, so why should America have to follow the rules when he wasn’t there to see him breaking them?

“It’s alright,” England knelt down to the forlorn boy’s height and hugged him close to his chest. America listened to his beating heart. It was slowing down to its normal heart rate. America pressed his ear to the man’s chest to hear it better. “You’re just a boy,” England murmured and combed his fingers through America’s hair, “You still don’t understand,”

England pulled away and kissed America’s forehead. “We don’t want to end my little visit on a bad note, now do we?”

“So, is everything okay, now?” America asked and hoped that it was.

“Yes, everything is alright. I’m giving you another chance to act accordingly while I’m gone,”

Just how many times had England said that to him? America had lost count. That wasn’t even counting the times he hadn’t been caught. England rules were impossible and restricting. Sometimes, he’d wake up with headaches because his people couldn’t survive off the system the English were creating. It was alright though, because they always found a way around them. England didn’t seem to mind, either. He had his own business to attend to, right? So, what was a few rules bent to fit their needs? England always said it was alright when he asked. He never told America he was wrong, only to stop, and then he praised him soon after, forgetting all about the broken rules.

“…Are you mad at me?” America asked for conformation. He had to know England wasn’t mad and that he wasn’t upset with what was happening.

“I’m not mad with you,” England said to comfort the distressed child and picked him up. “My goodness,” England grunted once America was situated in his arms, “You’re getting too big for me to carry,”

And too big for me to control, England thought with a frown.

“I didn’t join the rebels, though,” America said and yawned as England put him to bed. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

“I’m proud that you’re my son,” England said, avoiding the question and kissed America goodnight. “Now go to sleep. It’s time for all little colonies to go to sleep and I have thirteen to fit into one bed,” England chuckled at their little joke. America smiled and let himself be tucked in. “I’m not a baby,” America said, though he adored the attention while England was there.

“Oh, yes you are,” England disagreed, “You’re my baby. Now get some rest. I’m sorry, I yelled,” England blew out the candle on the bedside table and America rolled over onto his side. They said their goodbyes and America watched England leave.

“He’ll be back soon,” America told himself and closed his eyes to try to get some rest, “and he’ll still be proud of you,”


	2. Mercantilism

Mercantilism – The belief in favorable trade and profit for the mother country off of the raw materials provided by the colonies. The colonies then buy back the manufactured products from the mother country, completing the cycle.

It became very evident to America that this was the reason England came looking for him, why the taxes were done without his permission, why his people were ignored, and why he had no voice. He was just a colony and honestly, he could have accepted that. Perhaps he didn’t get England’s love, but England could fake it well enough, and that was enough for him so long as this vale of ignorance didn’t slip away… but, in the end, it had.

America had attended the Continental Congress. He had snuck in, pretending to be a spy for the British Empire, a game he played often when he overheard England was sending more soldiers to his lands, but ended up listening in and hearing a lot of things said that he had felt, but hadn’t realized he had been thinking all along. None of it sounded unreasonable at all. Each delegate believed it was unfair for the American colonies to be taxed without their say in the matter. Truly, none of them really cared about having taxes. They all believed taxes were necessary to some degree for the state to have money and for the welfare of the community, but that the British parliament was trying to override the individual government they had allowed the colonies to have in the first place. Many believed they wouldn’t have minded the tax if the British had simply asked their opinion and listened to their suggestions. None wanted to leave the union. It was a crazy notion and completely unneeded. “Just a few letters and some requests would do the trick to get this act repealed,” America overheard and nodded with a grin. Yes, this was perfect. Once England returned he would tell him just that and he had, but received nothing but a sharp glare and a stern, “You have no idea what you’re talking about?”

Of course, America was only just turned eleven and didn’t control his emotions as well as he would have hoped. When England turned his back to him, he felt as if a neighbor’s child and come up to him and called him rude names, so he handled it as such. “Well, why don’t you just go get drunk again and pass out in the street!?”

England whirled around and grabbed America by the side of his collar. America pulled and shoved and kicked the floor to get away, but England’s grip was strong, even for him. “What did you say to me?” England voice was acidic, but the look in his eyes was pitiful, as if America had kicked an old tired dog. However, England could have been a mad dog with the way he had startled the boy into squirming and screaming to be let go. “Where did you hear that?!” England shouted, wanting an answer and shaking America a bit to get the answer from him. “Who told…? Who said that about me?” America glanced up and caught the pain that radiated from England eyes. So, America hadn’t been wrong. That man he would find some nights, drunk and helpless on a tavern floor, was most definitely England. His father, the man he had looked up to and thought was absolutely perfect, was nowhere near it and perhaps England realized America knew this now.

“Nowhere,” America admitted, “…I saw you… Papa brought you home…”

England released America’s collar, but his hand still hovered above it, as if he would grab it again if America tried anything.

“Go,” slowly England turned his back on the boy again.

“Please,” America pleaded and grabbed England’s shirt tail, “Please just listen to me. I only wanted to talk. Why do I learn politics if I am not allowed to discuss our own with you? Why do you dismiss me?”

“Go,”

America turned and ran.

—

America realized he wasn’t alone in his struggles for England’s affection and attention when he heard the shouting of his parents on the floor below. Canada had stayed in Quebec that day, so America was alone as he crept down the stairs and peered into England’s office.

“Arthur, don’t do this,” France hissed. “Think about our family!”

“I am thinking about the good of the empire. Familial matters have no place here! I am under the direct orders of my king!”

“Your king…? Arthur, what does your king have to say about our lives? What has gotten into you? I just got back?” America watched as France excessively ran his fingers through his hair. He paced the floor and a short and frantic sort of pattern, back, forward, back, stop, step, turn toward England. “Arthur…” Francis’s hands nearly shook and whether it was fear or anger, America didn’t know. “What has gotten into you? Why must you send me away? Why am I no longer allowed in the colonies? Think about Matthew and Alfred, you promised them they’d be able to see me,”

“I promised Canada,” England corrected.

“But you still promised!” France raised his voice in desperation to get his point across.

“Promises have to be broken sometimes. You are no longer welcome here. The decision has been made. I can do nothing about it,” England took in a shaky breath and stood a little taller, as if trying to convince himself that what he was doing was right and he was strong. “You are a bad influence,”

“A bad influence? On who?”

“America. Have you seen what he has been doing? There are rebels all throughout these colonies!” England threw his arm out toward the doorway and America ducked behind the wall in fear he had been found out. However, England continued straining his voice without a bit of recognition of America’s ease dropping. “Boycotts, riots, disobedience, tax collectors being tarred and feathered –bloody hell! - The damned fools got themselves killed and called it a massacre! ‘Common Sense’ and independence? Its treason, it what it is! America, the little brat, is siding with those… those… insubordinates! I’m losing my son to these fools and it doesn’t help one bit that you’re helping this along!” England jabbed a finger at France’s chest.

“I have done no such thing!” France cried out in his defense.

“These are MY colonies! This is MY empire! I rule SO MUCH OF THE WORLD THAT THE SUN NEVER SETS ON THE BRITISH EMPIRE! I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN MY COLONIES!”

America covered his ears with his hands and huddled back against the wall. The young boy swore he could feel the foundations of the manor shake with the force of England’s bellows. When had England become so frightening? When had his perfect image of his father shatter?

“…Do you?” France said once he had recovered. “…Because Alfred has made it very clear that what he wants is a voice to be heard with,”

“So you have been talking with him,”

“He’s my son, Arthur!”

“No! He’s my son! You are just here, because of Canada. Canada is not here. He is in Quebec,”

“…but I assume I am not allowed in Quebec, either?”

England braced his hands behind his back and sneered, “You aren’t. Now…” He took a deep breath and looked away. He blinked, holding back tears, and cleared his throat. “Now leave,” England turned around and face the window, struggling not to let himself show how he truly felt, how sad, how unsure, and how scared he truly felt.

“Don’t turn your back on me,” France said.

“Go,”

“Arthur, Matthew and Alfred need both of us,”

“America and Canada… will be just fine. Now go,”

“Arthur…”

“Go,”

“…I love you,” France voice withered in quiet desperation.

“…How unfortunate,”

France waited a moment longer before turning and slamming the door behind him. He stumbled over America’s foot less than a moment later and gasped in surprise. “Oh, mon cher, Alfred, non,” France knelt down to the quivering boy and helped him to his feet. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” America admitted sheepishly. “W-Where are you going?”

“I must leave. I cannot stay here any longer. I am going back to France,” France ran his fingers through his hair again and sighed. “There is nothing I can do,”

“Don’t leave… You’re the only one who listens to me anymore without telling me I’m too young or too old, to be acting a certain way, or o-or tells me I’m…”

“Shh,” France shushed the boy and held him in a loose embrace, “I wish it wasn’t this way… I met that Ben of yours. A very… lively man,” He chuckled, “A lady’s man, even at his age,”

“You’ve got him beat,” America tearfully joked.

“I just might,” Francis responded and rocked slightly side to side to sooth the child clinging to him. “Walk with me to the border. I wish to speak with you about certain matters concerning your father,” America nodded and they left together.

—

Horse drawn carriages slipped past and people milled about, paying no real attention to the two blonds walking toward the middle of nowhere from town. “Why doesn’t he listen to me, Francis?” America asked, his arm linked with France’s. France sighed through his nose and shook his head. The older male thought for a moment before speaking.

“Our kind are linked with our people… We live much longer than any human, but something, a force, in the back of our minds, commands us to listen to the thoughts and feelings of our people and the people our citizens choose to lead them. Your father… he… he has fallen victim to the power and life consumed by an Empire. It’s a very easy thing to let happen and most times perfectly sane nations don’t realize they are losing themselves,”

France, of course, would lose himself in his failed attempt to over throw his monarchy, only to become so power hungry in Europe to have to be taken down and controlled from the rest of Europe and end up with another monarch. However, he was right. Even the most sane nations could lose themselves.

“What do I do?” America asked. He couldn’t let England destroy him and himself like this.

“I cannot tell you that, mon cher. You must find the answer for yourself. Do what you think is right,”

They walked together to Canada’s home on the border. The boy came running, a smile spread across his face in seeing his father again. America held back and watched as that smile fell away and was replaced with tears and pleading.

America walked home alone.

—

“I will not hear another word, America!” England shouted in exasperation. “You will obey the new laws I have set forth! And you will wipe that mud off your face!”

America stood before England, face dirtied with Indian war paint and feathers stuck in his hair.

England lowered his voice in an almost menacing way and towered over America to show his authority. “Do you know how much tea you wasted?”

“It’s worthless,” America muttered.

“Worthless?” England spat, “Boy, that tea was worth more than your head!”

“So I’m worth less than a few crates of tea?!”

“You are in rebellion!”

“I was only trying to get your attention! You didn’t even read the Olive Branch petition I sent you!”

“I didn’t need to read it! This says enough about your intentions! You will not become independent! You won’t last a day on your own! You need me!”

“That’s not what I want! Just listen!”

“I will place stricter laws. If you refuse to follow them I will have no choice. I have deployed more soldiers to keep you in check-!”

“Just LISTEN TO ME!”

The force of England’s open hand sent America reeling, sprawled out on the floor, his ears ringing, and eyes wide open. He covered his cheek with his palm and England bellowed so loudly it broke through the high pitch screaming of his ears ever so slightly. “YOU’D BE NOTHING WITHOUT ME!”

“I… I didn’t say… that,” America hiccupped and let his hand slip from his face. A bruise in the shape of a hand print covered the left side of his face. His lip was swollen and bloody. England had forgotten to hold back.

“Alfred…” England whispered as he realized what he had done. “I… I-I didn’t mean… I wasn’t supposed to… Oh, Alfred, I’m sorry. Y-You just made me so angry… C-Come here. I won’t hit you again, I…” England reached out for his colony, but the thirteen year old jumped to his feet and pushed past the empire and ran from him in fear and anguish.

—

America raised his riffle and his steely gaze at the target softened as he pictures a British soldier in its place. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He looked away and pulled the trigger. He hit the bull’s-eye. It was the eve of a Revolution.


	3. Are You Proud of Me Now?

America felt his fingers freezing. The cup of boiled water quickly cooled in his hands. He took a sip and the water warmed his frozen lips. America could feel the water warming him from the inside for only a moment before he grew cold again.

As he sat in the snow with his fellow soldiers around a slowly dying fire, America quickly became aware of his condition. He was so tired. He was so cold. His left arms was sprained and a few fingers broken. He had gotten a rough smack to the head with the bud of the riffle, leaving a bruise and a cut.

Washington spied the frozen boy from his post and shook his head. He hadn’t wanted this for the child. At this rate, the thirteen year old would freeze to death. He sighed, a cloud of breath floating off into the night air. He turned to France, who was bringing a blanket out from his tent. “Sir Bonnefoy,” Washington called and France stopped to let the man speak. He was not a great general. He had lost many times and, deep down, although France praised him for never giving up, in a way France felt that it was his fault America ended up so bloody and beaten.

“I wanted to ask you about America and his condition thus far,” Washington said.

France shook his head, “What is there to tell that you cannot see?”

“I want to know if he will survive another battle. I want to know if I should send him home to my estate. Martha can care for him. She adores children,”

“Why do you ask me?” France hushed and rubbed his gloved hands to return warmth to them. “Why not ask America yourself? He simply adores you,”

“You are his father,”

“I was once… He treats you more like a father than he ever treated me,”

Noticing France’s far off look and not willing to lose the man in day dreams, Washington spoke again. “Please, I know he listens to you. Franklin, a fellow delegate of mine spoke of you with him. America would never stop talking about what you told him. ‘To do what he thinks is right’, correct? Please, ask him how he really feels… He lies to me,”

“I will,” Francis sighed and bid the general goodbye with a nod. The ice and snow crunched under France’s boots as he walked to the area the solders had cleared for the fire. France laid the blanket over America’s shoulders without a word and sat down beside him.

America looked down at the blanket and wrapped it tighter around himself with one hand. “Thank you, Francis,”

“How are you feeling?” France asked and America shrugged.

“You look unwell… It’s late and we have a long day tomorrow. Washington might have something planned and Gilbert means to give you a little more training before you head back out to battle. I’ll take you back to your tent,”

After a moment of pause America nodded and let France help him to his feet. They trudged back to America’s tent, their feet freezing within their boots. The hard dirt was a welcoming bed for the tired boy. With the chilled blanket wrapped around him, all he wanted to do was sleep. Francis stuck a match and lit the small oil lantern, providing them a little bit of light away from the fire’s light outside. “Alfred, do you want to be out here? You do have a choice not to fight in your country’s wars,”

“No, I don’t,” America muttered. “I have nowhere to go home too. England doesn’t care for me anymore. Every house we’ve lived in belongs to him. I have no home,”

“Washington is willing to let you go to his estate to live there…”

“Will you be there?”

“Non,” France laid down beside Alfred on the floor and rolled over onto his back to watch the dim light eliminate the ceiling of the tent.

“Who will help me let go?” America asked, his voice becoming more and more like the child he was, worried and frightened. America was referring to the takeover of New York. He had tried to hold onto the city. As the city was over run and set ablaze, it felt as though a piece of him was being forcefully ripped away and America wasn’t willing to let go. He held on so long, he coughed up blood and it was France who had finally made him realize it was better for him to simply let England have the city, if even for a short time. It would be better that way.

“I’m sure that if it happens again, you can do that yourself,” France said, trusting in America’s abilities. He made and attempt to sit up.

“Please… Don’t go,” America tugged on France’s uniform. “I don’t want you to leave again, Papa,”

“Papa?” France repeated in bewilderment. Neither of the boys had called him that since England had sent him away. They hadn’t been allowed to. France rolled over and wrapped his arms around the trembling boy, his frighten son. “I’m sorry, mon petite. I won’t leave you. You can stay and fight, if that is really what you want,”

“…C-Could you… Could you sing that song you used to sing with… with England to put me and Mattie to sleep?” America’s voice quivered at the simple mention of such a nice childhood memory. America was too young to have such heartbroken eyes, France thought.

“Of course, I will,” Francis sang throughout the night and many nights on to get America through the cold winter.

—

Canada’s hands trembled, the tray in them rattled, and England broke another bottle and spat out another curse. He was drunk again. Why did he always have to drink himself into oblivion when things didn’t go his way? Why was Canada so afraid of his own father? He hadn’t felt like this since he had been ripped away from France the first time, after the Seven Years war and couldn’t speak a lick of English.

“Father,” Canada called out after finding his voice, “I brought your tea,

England spun around and the motion made his head spin. He staggered and pressed his palm to his forehead. “Oh… M-Matthew,” Canada sighed in relief. Thankfully, England hadn’t seen him as America again. Every time Canada was mistaken for his brother, England screamed and threw things, telling ‘America’ to leave and never come back for how ungrateful he was, only to drag him back and sob into his hair to tell him how sorry he was and that if he only came home everything would be okay again. Canada never had the heart or the will power to correct him.

“Bring… Bring it here,” England patted the desk and flopped back into his desk chair. Canada entered the office, scrunched his nose and the smell of alcohol and placed the tray on the desk. “Sit,” England said curtly, but the cleared his throat and motioned to the turned over chair beside the boy. “Please, have a seat. We can drink this together,”

“I’m not that thirsty,” Canada explained, but in reality, he had laced the tea with something that would help England sleep. The man hadn’t slept in days and it wasn’t helping his battle strategies. “I insist,” England said and Canada sat down, unwilling to disobey the man without the fear of being mistaken for his brother again. Canada poured the tea and held his steaming tea cup to his lips as he watched England down the tea as if it were a shot. The man coughed as his throat burned from the hot tea. Luckily, Canada knew the man was drunk enough to do such a thing and made sure the tea had cooled some before bringing it in.

The tea quickly took effect and England was fast asleep after babbling about his little boys and how cute they once were before ‘That Frog’ and those ‘blasted traitors’ had gotten too them. Canada had nodded along like a good little boy and once England was fast asleep and snoring, he lifted the man and brought him upstairs to his bedroom, where he deposited him before returning downstairs to clean up the mess England had created.

Canada accidentally cut himself on a broken bottle. He hissed and quickly brought his finger to his mouth. He tasted blood. Canada looked down at his finger, but it was only a small cut. It wasn’t anything to worry about. It was nothing compared to the wounds England tried and failed to hide from the war. Canada, being a good little boy, simply didn’t mention that he knew. He let England believe that England could hold his liquor. He let England believe that America hadn’t wanted to leave. He let England believe that everything would be better once he got America home. He let England believe what he was doing was right. He let England believe that he was oblivious. He let England believe it all, because he left like he was the last thread holding everything together. All he had to do was be a good little boy, but everyone has their breaking point. His would come in the next hundred years, when a riot went up in smoke and his own people were tried for treason.

—

The force of England’s bayonet hitting the wood of his rifle was too much for America. Because of his surprise of the sudden and, by European standards, underhanded attack, America lost his grip and his weapon went flying. He took a step back, his boot slipping in the mud and rain. “Stop this!” England cried out, his voice watery and hands quaking, “Stop this and come home! This isn’t fair!” He was acting like a child. Hadn’t he just turned 21? “I can’t do this… I can’t… shoot you,” England tossed his weapon away and fell to his knees, his willpower diminishing. “This isn’t fair…”

“What happened to you? You used to be so great,” America wondered aloud. What had happened to the once amazing vision he had of his father, of the man who could make his tears dry, make him happy on a rainy day, fix any broken toy, and beat any nation no matter the difficulty? What happened? Why had this picturesque vision broken? When had it broken? When did reality become so harsh and unforgiving?

“Are you proud of yourself, boy!?” England screamed, looking up, his eyes full of tears and his face covered in mud and blood tricked from his nose. “Are you proud of this?! This is treason! You know this! Are you proud of this!?”

England never got his answer. America was tugged away by France and England was taken back to whatever was left of his army. A surrender of British forces to the American forces was demanded. The British laid down their weapons and a treaty was signed. The war was over.

—

The tavern reeked of alcohol and was over crowded with celebrating people. America lifted the drink in front of him. He took a sip and decided he hated the taste. Why had France bought this for him? Why did adults like this stuff? Later on, America would hear of England’s drinking problem and remember how the stuff and been one of the reasons he had lost faith in England. He would allow his boss to pass a law banning any form of alcohol. In the end they’d repeal it and decide that no one under 21 should be allowed to drink the stuff. This would back fire on him when he entered the 21st century, when he was 18 not 21, but right then, it didn’t matter. America couldn’t see the future. America just wanted to go to sleep. As France sat beside him, protecting him from the rowdy crowd and their shouts and playful shoves, America ran over his last conversation with England. The last one he’d have for a very long time. ‘Are you proud?’ He had asked England the same question so many times, for years, just hoping for a single word that meant so much to him.

_“Darling, you’ll never hit the target if you squint like that,” England explained._

_“Really?” America blinked and stopped squinting. The target became blurrier and America lost the bull’s-eye. “But… I can’t…” America wobbled and England held the riffle firmly._

_“Shoot,”_

_America pulled the trigger and the recoil made his stagger backward. He hadn’t been expecting it. He surprised himself when he pulled the trigger without thinking. England hummed and rubbed his chin in thought, “Not great, but it’s a good try,” He patted America’s back in praise, “You hit the target. Good job,”_

_“Are you proud of me?”_

_“Very much so,” England smiled back._

“Are you proud of me?” America asked France, his voice raspy and tired. France finished his wine and ordered another glass.

“How can I not be?” France asked and added, “You did what you thought was right…”

“Okay…” America mumbled and squinted his eyes as he looked up at France so he could see his properly, “Thank you,”

“Perhaps, it’s time we made you some spectacles… Oui,” France said to himself, “Spectacles will do you some good,” They sat together in silence until the sun rose. By then, America had fallen asleep against his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through out the story, America has had a mild obsession with pleasing others and striving to assure that no matter what he does, it's right in the eyes of someone he admires. Unfortunately, with England drifting farther away, America feels less and less like he is able to accomplish this. When France tells him he's proud, America can't help but to thank him even though it still feels like something is missing.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, the colonies often disobeyed British authority while they were away because of the neglect they had from their mother country. The colonists continued to break the rules, disobeying the Navigation Acts, the smuggling, and not using English ports, because England never cracked down on them. England had an empire to run, hence the neglect America received, and when the colonists disobeyed, there was no real punishment. The English didn’t know how to deal with the uprisings in the colonies since it had never happened before and never really punished them as harshly as another country would have. In a sense, it’s as if the colonies are a misbehaving child earning a slap to the wrist and a firm ‘Hey, don’t do that. Your mother doesn’t like it.’ Since the colonists were never firmly punished, they believed they could get away with anything. In the next chapter you’ll see England really starting to clamp down on the rule breaking and the colonists are not too happy about it.


End file.
